


A Kiss Won't Wake Him

by DestructiveEmpathy



Category: Hannibal (TV), King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Angst, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Hurt, M/M, Multi, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Reincarnation, Roman Britain, Romance, Trust in Tristhad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-09-11 04:44:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8954122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestructiveEmpathy/pseuds/DestructiveEmpathy
Summary: They were once slaves. And then they were free men. But now, Galahad is struggling to understand what it means without his friends. Tristan fell during their one last battle against the Saxons. However, Galahad now must put his pieces back together for the sake of his oldest friend. But when Merlin offers another option, Galahad must decide: take it and risk everything he has left, or refuse it and lose the chance of ever seeing Tristan again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angryeggthatscreams](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=angryeggthatscreams).



"Shh, shh." Galahad chuckled as fingers danced along the soft waves of the woman's dark locks. "You're so beautiful." He pressed his wine-stained lips against her's, head spinning with euphoria. She tasted of honey and smelled of sweet fruits. 

Oriana's breath caught in her chest as she ran her fingers through Galahad's thick beard. She'd never dreamed she'd be able to touch such greatness. He was one of Artorius Castus' men! "I didn't think you saw me." 

Galahad's breath trailed down her neck as his lips left a trail of warmth across her skin. "How could I not?" He glanced up at her before dipping back down to suck a deep pink mark into the snowy skin of her neck. 

Oriana felt she was the most beautiful girl in Britain that night. 

The next night, Iona felt she was the luckiest. 

The night after that, Tris knew she was a replacement for someone else. 

 

Galahad buckled his belts up and gave himself a quick wash before he headed out into the cool winter morning with his empty goblet. The air was thick with the musk of burned out fires. The deep blue darkness was slowly being diluted by a golden sun. 

Finding the feasting tent, Galahad sat beside Tristram and poured himself some wine. 

The amiable silence between them filled the minutes they sat there until Tristram finally spoke. "You get their hopes up, pup." 

"Oh come on. You can't tell me you haven't slept with a woman before?" Galahad sipped his wine as he watched a stranger light one of the dying candles. 

"I have left a respectable amount of time between women. Not three in three nights." 

Galahad scoffed and finished his wine. As he moved to pour himself another, a hand covered the mouth of his goblet. "Hey." Galahad turned to face Tristram as warm lips met his. He released a soft grunt, fingers unwrapping from the goblet stalk. 

"Slow down," Tristram said, his breath misting against Galahad's lips. He smelled as he tasted. Of apples and wine. "Do not join me, pup." 

Galahad chuckled, breathless. "Join you? Why would you kiss me if you didn't want me to join you?" 

 

The smell of roses and sweet winter berries filled Galahad's lungs as he awoke to the dimly lit room. The furs around him had moulded to his form and he could feel there was an empty groove from another body that once lay beside him. 

"Good morning." The silhouette of a woman stood at the entrance which poured the pure white sunlight in. She wore a thin dress that only emphasised her form, and her deep red braid was draped over her chest.  

 _But what was her name? Tris?_  "Good morning." His voice cracked. Sitting up, he watched as she crossed the room.

Tris' hips moved in a way that could have seduced any man if they were in their right mind. "Last night you said some things." Her voice was almost sing-song, her native accent was almost as seductive.

"Oh, did I?" Galahad tried not to show his aggravation on his face but Tristram had always said that he was easy to read by the shade of his skin. This time, pink bloomed across his ears and nose. 

"Yes, you did." Lifting the skirt of her nightclothes, Tris climbed onto the bed and straddled either side of his legs. "I want to know: Am I better than the other girls? Or were you just saying that?"

Galahad's brow immediately creased. Oh damn. He'd told her that? Compared her to others? "Of course you are!" 

"Oh? Okay, then you can tell me... Am I better than this 'Tris _tram_ ' you talked about?" Tris leaned in, mischief in her eyes as she nipped at his neck. He could tell then, that this was all good-natured. But the mere mention of Tristram had his gut in knots. 

He tried not to hurt her as he pushed her away. "I have to go." 

Slumping back onto her bed, Tris shut her eyes and sighed. Last night Galahad had said everything right, but now she realised he was nothing like the stories and was just another _man_.

Galahad pulled on his tunic and fumbled with his belts. When he noticed the devastation in Tris' eyes and the pink in her cheeks, he stopped. "Tristram is a friend. I was just..." 

"I know who he _was_." Tris couldn't even look at him. 

Galahad hurried out of there after that. 

\--- 

The air had bitten at the boys as they rode. Galahad had clung onto Leon the whole time as they sped through the emerald green landscape. It was icy cold and Galahad's golden skin was prickling with goosebumps. As he grew colder, his grip on Leon grew tighter. Hiding his face in Leon's back, Galahad managed to avoid getting Leon's blond curls in his eyes. 

"How far is it, now?" One of the big Roman men said to another. 

"Few more days. Then we get to leave this cursed place."

Galahad couldn't understand a word but Leon clearly did. "What did he say?" asked Galahad. 

"It's a bad place," Leon said, gripping the leather reins tighter. His hands were growing calloused and rear ached from months of riding. But he didn't run. If he stole the horse and Galahad, the Romans would kill their family. 

Another Sarmatian boy drew his horse beside them. He'd heard all of the others call him Tristan but Tristan was a boy's name! This boy had long hair, braided like a girl. Leon had tried to tell Galahad that many tribes had different hair to theirs but Galahad remained unconvinced. 

He reached out to touch the braid before the boy turned to face him. Galahad immediately turned away as if he'd not done it before feeling a hard tug at his hair. Yelping, Galahad tried to see who did it with a good suspicion who it was. But Tristan was not there when he looked. It was just a big Roman man glaring ahead. 

 

Galahad sat between Leon's open legs as they ate, refusing to move even when Leon wanted him to. Little brothers in new places were like that. Galahad moreso. Leon took the opportunity to braid Galahad's hair. They'd not washed it recently, so the designs stayed in almost as if they had been tied. 

"Pretty hair." Tristan had appeared from behind a tree. 

Leon startled. This had been the first time anyone had heard the lone Sarmatian speak. Most of the others had come with a sibling or at least had made a friend for the journey. 

Galahad looked up and immediately scowled when he saw who it was. Disregarding his food, he charged towards Tristan. "You pulled my hair!" Galahad swung his fist at him, connecting only with the tree behind. 

Tristan laughed at him. "You can't punch, pup." He ruffled Galahad's curls until the braids had fallen out and then returned back behind the tree. 

Leon pulled Galahad back down to check his hand. "Stop trying to punch people." 

"No. Tristram needs punching." 

"Tristan." 

"'swhat I said!" 

"Tris-Tan." 

"Tristram!" 

"Close enough." 


	2. Chapter 2

The whole 'village' was bustling, even with the torrential downpour. While a primarily Celtic village, they still looked to celebrate the Saturnalia that evening. Artorius had been the one to suggest a feast combining all of their cultures. Bors and Gawain had been quick to remind him that they barely knew their own culture and were sure that anything they _did_ know was likely all just another lie.  

The one person who hadn't helped at all had been Galahad. The most Arthur had seen of him was when he'd entered the feasting tent, piled up his plate and then disappeared again. At first, Arthur had believed that this was just grief over Tristan's death. Now, Arthur suspected it was because he simply had no leadership. While Galahad had always fought back against authority, he thrived obeying others. 

Arthur trudged through the village, weaving between roundhouses and 'commandeered' Roman tents. In the distance, the figure of a man stumbled out of a roundhouse carrying a goblet. He looked disheveled, his tunic was twisted the wrong way round and his beard was completely grown out. 

“Galahad?" Arthur approached Galahad in five long strides, palm resting on the hilt of his sword. "Galahad, where on _Earth_ have you been?"

Rolling his eyes, Galahad focussed his attention on the reddish purple swirling in his goblet. “I’ve been enjoying my freedom.”

Arthur watched him with anticipation, hoping that this time Galahad would talk. But the sad truth was that they were raised Roman - as much as they would all try to deny it. In Rome, men were men. They weren’t designed to be the  _poetic_ types _._

“Your freedom comes with greater responsibilities than just what you’re drinking next,” Arthur said. “What about Gawain?”

Galahad grunted, top lip curling in disgust. “What about him?”

“Did you, or did you not promise him you’d both go home? To your people?”

The unhandsome look fell from Galahad's face. His mouth opened and closed in hesitation. He'd never looked so vulnerable as he did in that moment. “I said that to shut him up.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Yes-Yes I think I _did_ ,” Galahad nodded, finally downing the final dregs of wine in his cup. Sucking it from his teeth, he thrust the cup into Arthur’s hand. Pale white scars marked his hands as an intricate map of his life. “And I don’t think it’s anything to do with you.”

“I’m simply reminding you of your duties as a friend. And as a Sarmatian,” Arthur said, talking to thin air. Galahad had disappeared yet again.

Tossing the metal goblet between his hands, Arthur placed it on a nearby table. He had wanted to remind Galahad how unattractive his childishness made him. After all, that was all Galahad cared about of late.

Reluctant to dwell further on it, Arthur put it to the back of his mind and returned to prepare for the celebrations.

 

Gawain’s foot rested on a keg of ale as he braided several pieces of leather thonging together to make a bow sling. The little charm on his makeshift bow sling jingled as it moved. He'd needed something to keep his hands busy and keep them from shaking. The small tune on his chapped lips was flat and dull, never sounding as good as it had once done when he was with his brothers. Lancelot had always been the best at singing but Bors and Galahad were the most passionate. Gawain often wondered if Lancelot let the others drown him out because he was secretly embarrassed, or because he knew how much it had meant to them. 

Gawain scrambled up when he saw Arthur passing. He shoved his bow sling in his quiver. “Did you see him?” He limped behind, trying to catch up. “Is Galahad coming?”

Arthur turned to face Gawain, the downturned smile telling him everything. “I’m sorry, Gawain. He told me…” Arthur faltered for a moment. He couldn’t break the boy's heart by telling him the lie Galahad had said. “He told me that he couldn’t.”

Gawain’s expectant smile immediately fell. “Ah. Right.” He slumped into a nearby seat and gave a long sigh. Of course. Of course Galahad would put himself first again. This was all he’d ever asked of him and now it was time, Galahad failed to deliver.

“You know we could always come with you. Guinevere and myself. We’d love to see your homeland,” Arthur said, trying to help soften the blow.

“No. No you and her want to start a family soon. You have a home here.” Gawain looked towards Galahad’s tent and considered his options. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

“You'll stay for the celebrations, then?”

“I'll be packing tonight and will leave first thing. So I doubt I'll be able to make it to the celebrations. But if I don’t leave immediately, I might never. I don’t wanna end up like Bors; tied down with eight babes and a wife. I want to go home.” At twenty-two, Gawain still had time to settle with a Sarmatian lass and enjoy his last years. As the youngest of the group, he’d always had that one promise most didn’t.

“Then I shall help you pack. But you should say goodbye to the boys. Bors would never forgive you if you left without a word.”

"That's true. He'd likely hunt me down." Gawain forced a laugh before he left to start packing.

 

The feasting tent was full of drunk Britons and freed slaves who had been celebrating all day. The music was loud and the singing louder. Arthur could have almost sworn they were happy. The food was piled to the tent's canopy and the decorations hung from every loop and support. Arthur knew that someone would get hurt from the holly, but for now he didn't care.

"Is there goose?" Galahad appeared behind him, cleaned up and looking sober. His beard had been trimmed and he even had on his favourite tunic. But nothing could hide the paleness of his cheeks and the darkness around his eyes. It was likely he'd not slept for days. He'd always suffered nightmares, only made worse with the passing of each friend.

"Isn't there always?"

"Ah, no. There was that one occasion we had duck. The thing practically slipped from my hands it was so greasy."

"It's goose today... stuffed with swan."

Galahad scrunched his nose up at that. He'd never had swan and would sooner have preferred bull's testicles than a 'bird-in-bird' dish. "I think I'll pass."

"Oh!" Arthur pulled something out from his pouch and offered it to Galahad. "For you. To wear this evening." It was a pointed red cap, symbolising Galahad's newfound freedom. Arthur had hoped it would make it feel more real.  

"What in the gods' name is _that_?" Galahad had the distinct feeling the hat was a joke or at least a way of making him look like one. "I am _not_ wearing it." 

"It is the traditional pilleum! Worn by _freed_ slaves." Arthur held the cap in his hands, almost begging Galahad to respect at least one part of Arthur's culture. Surely he could agree to this one thing. It symbolised his freedom after all!

Gawain and Bors sat with their own pilleum on their heads, drinking away the embarrassment the caps gave them.

"Oh come on, Galahad," Gawain said, trying to ignore the fact that Galahad had hurt him deeply. "It's just a cap. It's not like your arse is on show."

"I'd bloody well prefer to flash my arse at the pope than wear that." Galahad flicked the hat before slumping down onto a stool. He poured himself a deep cup of wine before he distracted himself by watching the performers. 

Celtic women danced together to impress the men. And then Celtic men danced to show their physical prowess. Galahad found the dances refreshing. He had always stood on the sideline of the feasts as he watched unhappy slaves or lustful entertainers dance with little heart. Here, these beautiful or strong Britons danced with the passion of victors. He wondered, for a brief moment, what it would have been like to feel the way they did. To want to dance. 

 

"Come on pup." The strained voice of a man broke through Galahad's daze. "You've had enough for one night." Hands gripped his waist, fingers digging into his sides as they heaved him off up from the ground. 

"My arse," he said, words slurring together. "'Son show." He reached to tug his tunic down over himself, unaware that he wasn't even wearing his tunic anymore. He wasn't wearing anything. 

Galahad felt the vibrations of a low chuckle rise up through him. "No, pup. No one can see your arse." 

"Hmm. Says you." He tangled his fingers into the long braids. Tristram? "I've always- always loved your hair." 

Before he could embarass himself further, he was set down on a bed of furs. "Have a good sleep, pup." 

"No-." Galahad caught Tristram's hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the calloused palm. It was smaller than he remembered. "Stay with me. Like you used to." Suddenly, the hand was gone. 

"Go to sleep, Galahad. You're talking nonsense."

Galahad looked up at Tristram, finding Gawain in his place. "Gawain?"

"I'm surprised you even know my name." Gawain left the tent before he could let Galahad get into his head, again. He'd let Galahad make a fool of him before. He couldn't let Galahad make another drunken promise that would only end in yet another betrayal. 

 ---

Galahad's golden skin was nearly blue as he tried to wash in the icy waters of a British river. His bony knees bumped together and teeth chattered. How come he didn't see the big Roman men bathing with them? It seemed unfair that the Sarmatians had to wash til they were icicles and the Romans got to heat their water over a fire.

A hand appeared from the corner of his eye. "Take this." Leon handed Galahad a jug of oil.

Galahad scowled at the slick liquid, reluctant to let it anywhere near his skin. The flowers in it were already dead. This was just leftovers from the Romans' wash.

Glancing around, he noticed how shiny all of the other Sarmatian boys where. And the commanding Roman soldier glared at him, ready for any excuse to beat a boy. So Galahad started to clean himself with the oil.

They each had to share the scraper, so it passed from boy to boy while Galahad stood shivering. The moment it passed over to Tristram, Galahad moved to snatch it away. "Me first!"

Tristram held it above his head. "I had it before you."

"I've waited longer. Give it. Tristram!" Galahad's whining voice carried over the laughter of the soldiers and immediately stopped them. Before Galahad knew it, a hand had his wrists in a vice-like grip. 

Glancing up, the commander glared down at him. "That's it. I've had enough of you. Fighting. Biting. And being unable to speak the right damned language!" 

Tristram immediately dropped his hands and stared at the spectacle. 

"I'm sorry!" 

"Say his name." The Roman nodded to Tristram. 

"Tristram." 

"No, you ingrate. Say it properly. Say _all_ of our names. Each and every one! Or I shall flog you myself." 

Galahad burst into tears. "L-Leon..." He looked around, trying to delay saying Tristram's name again. "Bors. Draconhead." A crack rang out through the moor and a deep red hand mark bloomed across the boy's cheek. 

" _Dagonet,_ " the commander said, teeth creaking as he grit them.  

Leon wanted to save Galahad, but was sure that if the older boys did anything they'd all be punished.

 "Dagonet." Galahad struggled with each and every name. The names of the Sarmatian boys, and then the names of the Roman soldiers. He repeated them all until he got them exactly how the Romans wanted them. 

Tristram watched the whole thing from the corner of his eye as slowly scraped the oil from his skin. He kept himself silent until the commander was out of eyesight and had left a freezing Galahad to weep. "Here." Tristram took the boy's hand and helped wrap his numb fingers around the scraper. "It _is_ said as, 'Tristram'."  

Tristram stepped out of the lake, and disappeared into the thick heather to dress and get warm. He could hear the pup's sobs and other boys try to comfort him. 

\---

The fires were dimming down when Galahad stepped out of his tent, gripping his side. His head spun and body swayed with each step. The fresh morning air chilled his lungs and sent icy claws into his skull. He stumbled to the latrinae and was spent a good hour on his knees in there, sobbing in agony. The cold stone under his bare knees sent shocks right through to his hips.

“You play too hard, pup?” Tristram’s voice echoed from the stone walls. A warm hand massaged Galahad’s shoulders.

“Leave me alone.”

“You promised us you’d go home.” Tristram’s low voice filled that empty space in Galahad’s belly with the warmth only wine could give him now.

Galahad threw his head forwards and began to vomit again. This time, fingers ran through his curls and drew them back from his sweaty face.

“You won’t survive here. You weren’t meant for Britain.”

Panting, Galahad drew back and sucked in several long breaths. When he turned, he slumped against the side.

“You’ll get there, pup. We all do in the end.” Bors stood where Galahad had sworn Tristram had been. “C’mon, let’s get you up and packed.”

Galahad took Bors’ hand and heaved himself up. “Packed?” The pain in his head returned when he frowned, the throbbing in his skull too hard to ignore. “Ahh.” He pressed his palms into his eyes and tried to stop the throbbing.

“And get you some of Bors’ own mornin' cure-all.” Bors steered Galahad out of the latrinae and towards the hall the men all shared for gatherings.

Gawain was already in there. He was filling himself up with a large breakfast of all sorts, ready for the long road ahead. Who knew when he’d get to eat a decent meal again? It was no secret that he was also prepared for this to be his last meal.

Bors pushed Galahad down into the seat beside Gawain before disappearing to make his ‘cure-all’.

Gawain gave him the side-eye, watching as he slumped over and made loud breaths. “You look awful. What in the gods’ names did you do?”

Galahad groaned in response.

Typical. Gawain had always admired his older ‘brother’. As the two closest in age, he’d always seen him as a guide but Galahad wouldn’t be guiding anyone like this. “Probably better that you aren’t coming with me, then.” Gawain huffed into his cup and took a long drink of some hot herbal muck Guinevere had made for him.

Bors was gone for a little over fifteen minutes, all the while Galahad drifted in and out of sleep. He honestly did try to listen to whatever Gawain had to say, but he'd had so little sleep it was nearly impossible.

Nearly.

But anyone who had ever tried Bors' cure-all could safely tell you that it was the type of poison that kept the dead from getting a good-night's rest.

"Get this down ya, then. And then we can get you packed." Bors slammed the mug in front of Galahad, wiping something wet on his tunic. "Hold your nose, while you're at it." Bors seated himself down nearby, watching to see if Galahad recovered or died.

Everyone was very aware of what happened when Leon had once tried the cure-all.

Galahad pinched his nose with one hand and took up the mug with the other, shaky one. It felt like it was never-ending as he gulped down every last drop. He then slammed the mug down feeling terrible and fragile but much much better already.

Gawain had already left the table, not leaving any time for Galahad to make joke or even cast him a playful glance. It seemed that Lancelot and Tristram had taken all joy away with them.

Galahad stood with a strained grunt, hobbling out to see if he could catch Gawain before he left for good. While he still had no intention of leaving Britain, he didn't want to lose his best friend without saying goodbye.

"You're going to be too late." Lancelot's voice sent shocks of ice through Galahad's skin. "Did you ever think that, perhaps he only survived this long was the promise of going home?"

Galahad clenched his fists and made his way into the stables where Gawain was already saddled up. Arthur and Guinevere were even there, helping ensure each pack was secure. Their laughter died when Galahad entered.

He hesitated at the doors before he made his way towards them, head down. "Gawain."

Gawain could never stay mad at anyone, much less his best friend. And Galahad looked terrible. Even his usual scruffy state had tripled in the week and his pale skin was now nearly grey. Sallow. He needed Sarmatia more than any of them.

Nodding, Gawain dismounted from his horse and approached much like a man taming a wolf. "You look awful."

Galahad cracked the barest of smiles, finally looking up at him. "I can't go with you."

"Can't or won't?" Gawain said, his tone level as he tried to stay calm. "There's nothing for us here."

Galahad shook his head, the stinging in his eyes mimicking tears. "We have no home. Sarmatia doesn't exist. Not really."

"What are you talking about? Of course it bloody exists!"

Galahad rubbed his lips together in an attempt at drying them. "How? How do you even know that the Romans haven't slaughtered them already?"

"Galahad, this was as much _your_ dream as it was mine! And you told me... told me that no matter what we would go home." The pain in Gawain's eyes sent a knife through Galahad's gut.

He used to be the one who'd _start_ the fights Bors didn't. How did he become so afraid of it? But then, this was one he'd lose no matter the result.

"Please, Galahad. 'Even the adventure is worth the journey.' Didn't you say that?" Gawain stepped closer, gripping Galahad's forearms. "Let's go on an adventure. Remind those Roman bastards that the Sarmatians aren't done for, yet."

The glint of tears lined Galahad's eyes and the forced smile said everything. He nodded, returning the grip on Gawain's bracers. "I'll come with you."


	3. Chapter 3

The bellows and cheers from their brothers was almost deafening as they rode off into the moors and on their way towards the dockyard at the Roman fort of Arbeia. Gawain had already had it planned that they should arrive at the fort by nightfall and could bribe a Roman to allow them onto a boat. 

It felt like home to ride. The brisk wind lifted Galahad's curls and cooled his hot neck. The creak of leather and thud of hooves on hard dirt sent waves of nostalgia through him. It was hard to be back on the road with only Gawain. Shadows haunted his periphery. Each time they crossed his path, he imagined it was one of his friends hoping to get ahead of the group. Most of all, Galahad imagined that every bird was Isolde. Her wings would spread far across the grey skies as she would sweep and dive above them. And where Isolde would go, Tristan followed.

"God I don't want the whole journey to be like this," said a voice, breaking through Galahad's daydreams. "With you being all moody and silent." Gawain drew his horse closer, his hopeful smile an attempt to bring Galahad out of his mourning. "I mean, I wanted company on this ride. So far it'd be better travelling with a rock."

Galahad forced a smile, his teeth glinting like a predator's. "If you wanted better company, you could have bought a woman."

"You're enough woman for both of us, thank you," Gawain said, satisfied with Galahad's attempt at being friendly. It would take a while for it to be back to normal but they were getting there. 

Forcing a laugh, Galahad urged his horse to move faster. The wind whipped around him as he sped towards the coast, past miles and miles of dense forest and vast moorland on either side. The distant echo of hooves pursuing him faded as he was swept into his mind. The red sun sank low into the horizon until Galahad was riding in the icy black of night. 

It was only when he stopped to check back on Gawain when he realised just how hard he'd been riding. His muscles were numb from the pain, his breath strained. He tried to smile between his panting breaths. "I've-" He stopped himself short with a cough and turned away. There was no way he'd confess to missing this. Holding his heart out to his brother in arms was not something he'd do so easily. Not anymore. 

"We should set up camp in the woods, there. I don't know how far we are, still and I don't want to risk the horses keeling over." Gawain seemed to totally ignore the conflict in Galahad's mind. The truth was simpler - he knew Galahad would never talk to him. 

Dismounting, Galahad draped some fur over his shoulders and led his horse into the forest by the reins. He stayed behind Gawain's horse, watching how its rear faded into the inky blackness between the trees. 

The eery silence of the forest was only broken by the sound of hooves and feet cracking freshly-fallen twigs beneath their feet. Galahad poked his tongue out to wet his lips and broke out a low whistled tune. He kicked away brambles and focussed on keeping himself distracted as they walked deeper and deeper into Pict territory.

"Here!" Gawain kicked at a long-since abandoned cart. "We can camp here. Burn up some of the wood, use the coverings as extra shelter." He turned to tie his horse to a nearby tree and took out his knife. "Come help me with this." 

Galahad tilted his head, tying his own horse and approaching. 

Gawain drove his blade deep between two old slats of wood, cracking their fastenings. "Here we go..." He joined Galahad's tune as he whistled along. 

The two men continued to skin and debone the cart for a good hour or so until it was completely disassembled and they had a blazing fire going to keep the damp, icy night air from consuming them. 

When Galahad finally sat down, he felt like he'd never be able to stand again. Huddling close to Gawain, he offered him a rabbit leg. 

"You do realise that you haven't told me you're sorry, yet?" Gawain said, his tone almost teasing. 

Galahad looked up from his food, his brow furrowed and accompanied by a sudden waft of coldness. "I'm here, aren't I?" 

Gawain fell silent for another moment before he shook his head. "You have been moping like a Roman hound's bitch as if you're the only one who has lost anything!" Putting his little plate down, he jabbed his finger into Galahad's chest. "We've all lost someone. All of us. And now it's your turn to grow up. Nothing will bring them back." 

Bile rose up into Galahad's throat as the dawning realisation hit him. He gripped his plate with trembling hands. Eyes blown wide, tears streamed down his cheeks. 

As the golden firelight struck Galahad's sparkling cheeks, Gawain sat back and watched his friend unravel with a pang of guilt. "I didn't mean that." 

Galahad stood and left the light-filled clearing. He followed a stream until he reached as far as he could go without losing sight of camp. Sitting down on a felled log, he watched the flickering golden light of the camp cast beams through the black silhouettes of the trees surrounding it. It didn't leave the clearest image in his head, but Galahad let his imagination shape the rest of the landscape:

A boy sat on a log in the deep forest bordering Britain as he watches the boats come and go through the trees. The way the torchlight hits the black water's ripples casts a beautiful image. The boy digs his fingernails in the moulding bark and imagines he's sat on one of those boats as it sails home. Home. 

"You sometimes dream of wandering out into the calmness of the sea." A familiar voice broke through Galahad's mind and cracked open his thoughts to lay them bare. 

Galahad glanced over his shoulder to see Tristram. Without so much as a frown, he returned to facing the flickering firelight in the distance. "I don't have to listen to the words of a dead man." It hurt to admit it, but Galahad had to move on. Nothing else would do except outright denial. 

Tristram sat beside him and patted Galahad's cold, bare knee. "Your mind holds the illusion, Sarmatian. It is no spirit that haunts you. Nor is it a trick of the light or even an enchantment." 

Galahad's brow furrowed as he turned back to face the man he believed to be Tristram. In his place was an old man. A Pict. "Merlin!" He grabbed his blade and drew it halfway before reason fought back instinct. "What do you know about any of this? Of how I'm feeling?" 

Merlin didn't even blink as the glint of a blade threatened to take his life. "You and your men have killed my family since you were only pups plucked from your mother's teats. I am aware of the effects of grief."  He turned to face Galahad, eyes intense with a fire he'd only witnessed on the battlefield. "You feel guilty for every strike of the enemy's blade piercing Tristram's flesh, do you not? That it should be your body dragged around that field, limp and lifeless."

Galahad tried not to nod along in agreement, preferring to keep his eyes fixed on the flickering in the distance. His hands tugged and twisted the thonging of his bow sling and his teeth worried his lips until the fresh taste of copper bloomed across them. 

"Or perhaps you blame yourself that if you had been true to yourself that perhaps he'd have known for certain how you felt before he died?" 

Galahad's heart stopped. There was nothing to feel guilty for! Men were men. And to play 'woman' was not Galahad's fate. No matter how his heart hurt to think about it. "You know nothing, _nothing_ about how I feel." Galahad stood and started back towards camp. 

"I know he confessed his feelings that night. And I know what the Romans made you say in return." 

 

 ---

 "You could come with us... When it's time to leave." Galahad offered a sloppy smile as he braided Tristram's hair. "I mean, it will be quite the adventure." He buried his face in the back of Tristram's neck, breathing in the scent of lavender and firewood. 

Tristram sat in silence as Galahad made his drunk case. He focussed on braiding the bow sling with feathers and beads. When Galahad finally fell silent, he said, "I will come with you." He pulled himself away to turn and press his forehead to Galahad's. "Only if you kiss me again." 

Galahad cupped Tristram's cheek and pressed a chaste kiss to the soft berry-tasting lips of his lover. "There," he said in almost a whisper. "Now will you join us?" 

Tristram stayed silent a long moment as if savouring the kiss. His eyes remained shut before he whispered again. "Only if you tell me you love me." 

The smile died on Galahad's lips as he pulled away. "What?" 

"Tell me you love me and I will join you." Tristram's eyes opened and he reached back out to touch one of Galahad's soft curls, only to find it escape from his grasp. 

Galahad climbed off of the bed and immediately started to redress.

"Where are you going, now, pup?" Tristram rolled onto his back to watch Galahad panic. 

"Love is not for two men to have." Galahad tightened his belts. "What we have... It's not love. It's lust at its basest! Instinct to be touched and fondled and to dominate. You don't love me." 

He slammed the door on his way out. 

"I do love you," Tristram repeated in the cold silence of his lonely room. 

\---

Merlin stood and moved towards Galahad, immediately filling the air with something he could not place. "You wanted to show him your heart that night. In Sarmatia, love is more accepted between men than in Rome. Their new 'God' has banned all things love in place of their hate, and you have been too swept up by their teachings to understand the teachings of your own people." 

"And what do you know about my people? My people could be dead for all I know!" Galahad turned to grab Merlin by the beard. He dragged him in until their were nose to nose. "How dare you say I'm anything alike to a Roman." 

Merlin stared at him impassively, face unwillingly drawn close to Galahad's. "Tell me that this is not a Roman response to criticism." 

Galahad released the old man with a snarl and wiped his hand on his tunic. "What do you want? Simply to torment me until I've left Britain?" 

"I want to help you. And in helping you, help my people." Merlin offered his hand for Galahad to take, but Galahad simply ignored it. Merlin moved towards the stream. "Long before the Romans invaded our homes, we had something stronger than their God. We had powers granted by our own. By Nature herself." 

Galahad followed in silence, eyes focussed on the back of Merlin's head. 

"But when they invaded, they took so much from us. They took our homes, our women and our gifts from the gods." Merlin touched the water with a branch until it rippled and broke to reveal the image of a hoard of treasure. "It was when your men killed a small group of Druids that our most prized gift was taken from us." The hoard of treasure parted to reveal a stone cup, with two thin lines of gold bordering its base and lip. "The Cupán Saol - or the Cup of Life."

Galahad leaned closer in towards the water, holding onto a branch to understand just what he was witnessing. "No. That-That's just a damned cup! I remember we..." Galahad grew pale. When Merlin had claimed _his_  men had killed those Druids and stole those artifacts, he'd meant it literally. He swallowed back his shame and tried to continue his rebuttal. "We drank out of it. All of us. It has no power." The memory of passing the cup around a cheering about how they'd survived another day sent shocks of shame through him. 

"The cup you so disrespectfully drank from and handed to the Romans has now been renamed the Holy Grail and locked away." Merlin swept the image of the cup away and returned to face Galahad. "I want you to bring me the Cup of Life, and in return I shall show you the true power it holds." 

Galahad's mind immediately raced to Tristram. 


	4. Chapter 4

Galahad broke through the line of black trees and sat back down by the fire. He was completely silent as he picked his rabbit leg up. It was hard for Gawain to see him so listless one moment and so passionate in another. He was tempted to ask what he'd been doing, but preferred the silence over another argument. And what would he say? Galahad was his own man but he was entitled to his own childish moping. 

Gawain drew some furs over himself and shut his eyes. "Wake me after four hours. I'll take the next watch." 

Nodding, Galahad remained silent and continued to pick at his meagre dinner. Merlin's words echoed through his mind as he watched the fire dim through the night. There was no way they could head right into Rome. They might have had their papers, but what did Romans know of honour? If they had cared about such a small thing, maybe Tristram would be on the road with them. 

It didn't do Galahad well to dwell on it. Not that. But he had to come up with a plan. How could he convince Gawain to commit this apparent suicide with only his words? After all of the promises he'd broken to him, even Galahad knew this would push Gawain too far. Only if he did this wrong. 

The white sun peeked through the canopy, casting warm pillars of light through and striking their modest camp. When Gawain sat up, leaves filled his hair and the scent of dewy, rotten wood filled his lungs. The smoke of the burnt out fire drifted up to meet the sunlight and Galahad was nowhere to be seen. 

Scrambling up, Gawain grabbed his blade. "Galahad?" he said, his voice hushed. "Galahad?" He kept low, creeping through the woods to see a pale form in the icy cold river. "Damn you, Galahad." Gawain straightened up and approached him. "You said you'd wake me up." 

"I said no such thing." Galahad's bright smile caught Gawain's breath in his chest. "And you needed the sleep more than me. Remember, I'm the better rider!" He stood from where he knelt, bathing.

Gawain couldn't hold back his chuckle and he shoved Galahad's shoulder. "Give over. I've seen you fall off your mare more than your fair share." He started picking his own clothes off and left them flung over an outstretched branch. "Was it the nightmares?" he said, his tone immediately softening. 

"I've always-" 

"Don't give me that. We both know they've been worse lately." 

Galahad let out a sigh and nodded as he scraped the final section of oil from his skin. "They have been." He handed the scraper over and reached for the perfumes sat in his pack. 

"Do you want to talk about it? Even a little bit?" 

"They'll go soon enough." Galahad perfumed his hair and beard before offering it up to Gawain. "I don't see the point in reliving the night during the day." 

Gawain wanted to push further. He wanted to learn what Galahad saw when he closed his eyes, but no one ever had that honour. "I wish Leon was here," Gawain said, thoughtlessly as he poured oil over himself. 

"Me too." Galahad climbed out of the icy water and dried himself off on his clothes before pulling them on. 

"He'd have knocked our heads together." Gawain looked up and watched Galahad tighten his belts and put on his bracers. "We'd be home by now." 

Galahad drew his lips between his teeth before he shook his head. "I don't think we would've." He looked up at Gawain. "Leon always had to die." Standing, Galahad left Gawain to finish bathing. 

While his heart ached at the memory of his brother, Galahad felt something it hadn't in a very long time. He felt a piece of himself return, like a puzzle piece slotting back into place. It might have been chipped and discoloured, but the piece was there. 

Something of a smile settled across Galahad's face where no one could see it as he carefully covered up their tracks and all signs of a camp. 

"You packed everything?" Gawain appeared in the camp to find the horses were both ready and Galahad hefting the last pack onto his one. 

Galahad winked as he mounted his horse and rode out of the forest and back onto the road. It left Gawain speechless to see how Galahad had changed overnight. He wondered if it had been their talk or if it was just being on the road that had done it. Whatever had caused this change could carry on if it meant he got his friend back. 

Gawain rode after him, the day passing easier between them. The air was light and warm, nothing but the sound of their horses as they rode. Galahad even let out a laugh under his breath as they dodged overhanging branches. 

The laughter died as they reached Arbeia and faced the ever familiar face of Hadrian's wall. Romans crawled over the fort like rats to a sinking ship. 

"Halt! Come no closer or we will be forced to use force." A Roman soldier approached, sword drawn and pointing directly at Galahad. "State your names and purposes here." 

Gawain climbed off of his horse, hand on his chest in a respectful salute. "Sir, I am Gawain and this is my brother-in-arms, Galahad. Artorius Castus' men." 

When Galahad tried to swing down from his horse, the Roman's sword drew far too close to his throat. 

"Where is your master then, slaves?" The Roman peered at them with beady little eyes, knuckles growing white with how hard he gripped his blade. He wanted nothing more than to punish some fugitive slaves.

"We are freed men!" Galahad glared, knocking the man's sword away as he dropped down to his level. "We are free."

"Galahad," Gawain said, his voice quiet and warning him. "Galahad let's just go."

"You hear this Roman scum! He thinks we're _slaves_." Galahad grabbed his knife, drawing it to threaten the Roman. "We are free men."

Gawain grabbed Galahad's arm and dragged him back. "We'll go. We'll leave. But we have proof."

The Roman soldier looked more amused by Galahad's efforts to intimidate him than anything else. " _Fugitivus_ don't just get to walk away, boy." The Roman grabbed Galahad's arm with his free hand, drawing his sword to his forehead in a threat. 

Snarling, Galahad dug his short nails into the Roman's arm. The fire in his wide eyes told the gathering Romans that he'd kill every last one of them if he was hurt.

Gawain grabbed the scrolls of papyrus and thrust them towards the Roman. "There! The seal of the Empire. See for yourself." 

The Roman reluctantly let go of Galahad to open the scrolls and read them. Galahad spun around to face the Roman, pushing his curls back down over his forehead. He wanted to kill the arse, but they needed to enter Arbeia. There was no way around that. 

The Roman made an unpleasant snorting sound and tossed the papyrus rolls back at them. "You're no longer under the Roman employ. If you require use of a port, find another. This is for official Roman business only." The Roman turned away, his excitement killed with the promise of murdering some slaves.

Gawain dragged Galahad and their horses away from the fort walls and stopped them when out of eyeshot. He looked at Galahad for a long moment before he pulled him closer to inspect his forehead. He ran his thumb over a small slice that crossed an inch of Galahad's pale skin. "It doesn't look too bad. It should heal up." 

Galahad's breath was hard in his chest as he fought back the temptation to go back and skin that damn Roman. Instead he tried to focus on his bigger aim. He couldn't get the Cup of Life if they were dead. "I'm fine." He shrugged Gawain off. "But that-that pigshit-born bastard is lucky we need Arbeia or I'd have-"

"I know, I know." Gawain nodded along, hoping to stop Galahad going off on a tantrum. "But we do need Arbeia. And my friend will meet us in the nearby popina and we'll discuss the complication there." Gawain tried to get Galahad's eye contact, which he didn't seem to be freely giving. "This whole thing is over if you go killing Romans." He slapped Galahad on the shoulder before returning to the road.

Galahad followed, his usually handsome face still creased in a hard glare. The ride to the popina was slow and silent. Neither man wanted to admit that this complication was a blow. 

The Popina was alive with music and smelled of burning hemp. Scantily clad women lounged over Roman men's knees. Both Galahad and Gawain suddenly realised how out of place they were, now. Without a family of fellow Sarmatian Warriors, they stuck out like a sore thumb. Not that Galahad actually cared. Romans were all pricks, anyway. 

Both men found themselves a seat and ordered a jug of wine. Galahad sat back with a leg crossed over his knee and cup in hand as he watched a woman dance around the crowds. She was _very_ pretty and if it weren't for Gawain's constant need for a protection, Galahad would probably have propositioned her. 

"Are you listening?" Gawain waved a hand in front of Galahad's face. "Gods, anyone would think you're sex starved! How long has it actually been? Three days?" 

"Four." 

"Ooh, four days. How will you survive?" 

Galahad rolled his eyes and flicked some wine from his cup at him. "I can admire beauty, can't I? Go on, Gawain, look at her. She's pure artistry. Whichever god made her needs a laurel wreath." 

Gawain glanced over his shoulder to look. Galahad was right for a change. That beauty was beyond natural. "She is..." 

"Godly?" 

"My contact." Gawain turned back to Galahad. "Her name is Priscilla and if what I've heard is true, she eats pups like you whole." Gawain set his cup down and waved this 'Priscilla' over. 

Galahad watched with keen interest as Priscilla walked over. Priscilla didn't even look at him, though. It was almost as if she knew what he was thinking. She sat on a stool and hooked her feet around the legs. "Gawain, you're late." 

"We got caught up at the gates." 

"I told you that you would." She took Gawain's empty cup and poured herself a drink in it. The conversation was polite, if a little distant. Galahad just sat and listened for the most part. He got the feeling Priscilla and Gawain had a history. Even in his self-destructive state, he would never step in on someone else's love. If that was what Priscilla was. Frankly, she terrified him. 

It was late when Gawain finally addressed Galahad, again. "So, what do you think?"

"Of what?" Galahad looked up from his wine with heavy eyes. 

"Of the plan?" Priscilla said. 

"It would help if I knew the plan, wouldn't it?" 

Gawain sighed and rubbed his brow. "You weren't listening." 

"Why should I? It's clear you two have everything sorted out. I just need to play along, right?" Galahad set his cup down and went to pour more, only to find a feminine hand on his cup. 

"You will listen to this plan, or you will both end up slaves of a big hairy Roman man with wandering hands," Priscilla said as she stole Galahad's cup to keep him from drinking more. 

"Oh, and you probably know all about that, don't you?" Galahad glared at her, more than pissed that someone dare take his drink from him. Well, Hell take her because he still had the jug. 

Priscilla dropped the cup and lunged for him. Her 'feminine' hand gripped his cheeks hard, stronger than she looked by far. "I do. And beard or not. Tits or not. Drunk or not, you'll wish for death if a Roman man takes a liking to you. Understand?" She shook Galahad's face hard. "And no amount of military training can protect you when you're naked and alone with him..." 

Her violent rant went on, but Galahad could no longer hear her. His eyes were glazed over, breath slow. 

_The tiles are cold under her feet. She covers her modesty with her hands as she waits for her new husband to come consummate their vows. The sun is growing low when she hears men's laughter. She sees his feet, first. Then feels his calloused fingers bring her chin up to look at him. Her heart races. She had spent so long admiring him from afar. She spent so long thinking she wanted him. Now she realises she wants nothing more than to escape._

"Priscilla!" Gawain pulled Priscilla away just in time to watch Galahad tumble from the seat, convulsing. "God no. Get hemp, poppy, anything!" Gawain pushed Priscilla away and rolled Galahad onto his back so he could loosen the fabric by his throat. 

Priscilla returned with a pipe and handed it to Gawain. Stepping back, she watched as he inhaled the pipe and blew the smoke into Galahad's mouth. Again and again, Gawain fed Galahad the smoke until the convulsions stopped and his breathing returned to normal. 

Another minute passed before Galahad was able to move of his own will. His eyes rolled left and right, searching for someone. When he didn't see them, he burst into tears and clung onto Gawain.

The three of them went to a rented room so Galahad could recover in peace. He slept curled around a blanket, just as he had when he was a boy. 

"Do those happen often?" Priscilla stood with Gawain by the window. 

"Only when he's... It's complicated." 

"When he's, what? I need to know if we're dragging a dead weight through Rome." 

"He only does it when trapped or has someone in his face." Gawain said, blaming Priscilla entirely. "Some say it's magic from the old gods. Christians say it's a curse." 

"Magic? What's magic about a seizure?" 

"When he has them, he can see things." Gawain glanced back at Galahad. "He can get into people's minds." 

Priscilla stiffened and also looked at Galahad. "He can read them?" 

Gawain shrugged. "He once told me about a dream he'd had about my family. He'd never met them, but knew them as intimately as I did. Whatever it is, he's my brother in arms. If you want to leave us, then do so. I'm not going anywhere without Galahad."

"The plan goes on as stated. But warn him that I will kill him if he gets in my head."

"Fine."

 


End file.
